Don't Pray For Me
by purest-jonesboro-kun
Summary: Prof. Oak's Pokemon Lab aide fulfills a lower role in society and is haunted for it.


watch?v=QLCj6TmFCmo

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>Log of Dr. Emmit Brown, research aide to Prof. Oak<p>

Date: 06/29/1999

Subject: Don't Pray for Me

Body:

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I'm having trouble sleeping again. I wake up from a guilt-riddled half-sleep so often that  
>I have grown accustomed to the fatigue and the heavy eyelids. I sometimes doze off into a sort of<br>hallucination in waking life, usually on a lunch break or during some monotonous daily task in the  
>lab. In the corners of my eyes I see distorted shapes; peripheral images of vengeful spirits come<br>back to haunt me. I still see them. I see them every day whether I want to or not.

My innocence and clarity of conscience were stolen from me the day I started this job. I  
>was told of what I would have to do. I claim I had no choice, but I make no excuses for myself. The<br>money was right and I desperately needed a job. I am a coward.

When people come through this nowhere place of Pallet Town, they come to see the Professor.  
>They come to store their excess as well. Oak funds our research by providing a service to Pokemon<br>collectors to keep the ones they can't bring with them in a sort of storage. It's a biotic suspension;  
>not a permanent solution, however. After a few years in storage the cells begin to break down and die.<br>We are scientists, not gods. So many people from all over the world look to the Professor for his  
>storage service. He refuses to reveal the underworkings of his technology for fear competitors will<br>undercut him, effectively ending his means of revenue to continue with the research.

So many people request Oak's service...and we of course only have so much space for storage  
>and so many staff for managing the reserves. Many clients leave their Pokemon under our supervision<br>without a closing withdrawal, therein lies the problem. When someone signs a contract for the service,  
>they are required to periodically renew their term. If they do not, they have a small grace period<br>to claim what they have left with us before I am forced to do MY job. I, unfortunately, am required to  
>do my job often enough.<p>

When someone abandons their forgotten pets with us, we have to take them out of storage to  
>free space for those waiting to use it. We do not have the means to give them anything resembling<br>a free life. After they are domesticated and kept in cold storage, they also are unfit to be let  
>back into the wild. They tried that for a while in the beginning...but they have lost their former<br>wild instincts and simply starve to death while wandering aimlessly. A more "humane" option was  
>demanded of the organization. Using that word always makes me chuckle a little bit inside. I am one<br>of the aides tasked with "humane" termination of the abandoned Pokemon. Call it what you will, but  
>I am a murderer.<p>

The process is simple enough. We round up the group of Pokemon scheduled for euthanasia and  
>give them what I can only describe as a death row inmate's last meal. We let them run around outside<br>for a while or take a swim in the lake. They are mostly confused about where they are. It may just  
>be my own mind, but I think they are looking for their trainers. I ofter wonder just how much these<br>creatures can think...how much they can really feel. I try not to think about that too often, though.

What comes at the end of the day is what will haunt me for the rest of my life. My lab supervisor  
>and I round up the Pokemon and herd them into a room roughly the size of a school gymnasium. There are<br>no windows. Metal grates line the ceiling and floor. One steel-vaulted door is the only exit in or  
>out of the room. Once they are inside, we give them their final meals. I try to pet them or play with<br>them for a little bit, but I'm always overcome with grief before too long. It's their eyes that get me.  
>They just have this...look. Their animal instincts are strong enough to know something is wrong and they<br>just look so confused.

My supervisor waits outside the room until I am done. He always seems vaguely annoyed that I  
>insist on spending a little time with them before they have to die. Heartless fucker.<p>

Once I exit, he orders me to shut the door and lock the vault. This is where the wails begin.  
>This is the moment when they know something is wrong. I'm then ordered to start the vent system that<br>releases the gas. As it starts to filter into the room, the panic begins. They frantically scratch at  
>the door and the cries get louder and stronger. It might as well be the the loudest din in the most<br>chaotic hall of hell to me. I started wearing earplugs for this shortly after starting this job. It  
>still does not help. Nothing helps. I hear them always.<p>

An eternity crawls by and eventually the scratching stops. The whining and crying stops. Everything  
>stops at this point except for the flow of my tears. Well, that's how it used to be anyway. I have no<br>tears left in my body to cry.

My supervisor cuts off the gas and vents out the room. Then we must collect the bodies. They're  
>typically gathered closer to either the door or the corners of the room. There is excrement from released<br>bowels. Urine soaks their fur. There is no dignity to be found in this life, I am now sure of it.

The corpses are bagged and organized. Then they are taken from us by a different group for  
>incineration. That is where my job ends.<p>

I will never know a restful night of sleep. I will keep suffering for what I am forced to do.

Don't pray for me. I am already dead.

: - end log -

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